Pragmatism or Self Preservation?

I’m not sure if I still know how to do this, but here goes… 😉

For most of my life, I’ve battled with what seemed to be an entrenched faith in the goodness of people.

I’ve always seen that as a flaw in my character (vulnerability) which, once exposed, people attempted to exploit.

Still, I felt it better to be that way then steeped in cynicism. I’d rather put my faith in goodness than the soul sapping omnipresent forces of evil.

But, I needn’t have worried because time and experience relentlessly challenged my belief, even with people whom I’ve loved.

I’ve come to accept that human beings are gradations of grey, and that rarely, all too rarely, do the fullness of ourselves hold up to examination. Especially, against the elusive measure of goodness.

I’ve watched in the last six weeks as the torrent of sexual misconduct and criminal allegations have unfolded with horror. Which says to me that my self assessment was wrong. I’ve walked the earth for 17,549 days and still my desire to believe in the intrinsic goodness of humanity abides, intellect and experience be damned.

I’ve gone from shock, to jarring, long forgotten recollections of abuse/misconduct that I endured, escaped, and as the mind is won’t to do – buried. Self preservation is one of the strongest instincts.

I haven’t been able to help but think of how affirmation for those who’ve chosen to break their silence, lives side by side with unspeakable pain….and just how much these traumas shape the lives of women, unasked for, unwanted and often rarely healed.

Think of how, mounting lists of sexual “transgressions” must, as a matter of course, shape our interactions and relationships with men have kept me awake at night. I know they have shaped and marred mine and it’s an uneasy recognition.

How many women, I wonder, feel this resurgence of fear, shame, anxiety (or currently grappling with these issues daily), wedded to kinship with their sisters are battling a welling tide of resentment towards the men in their lives? Many of whom we see actively excusing, denying, or willingly turning a blind eye towards their own behavior and their gender, thereby enabling the sickening cycle of sexual abuse to continue.

I’ve asked myself (again), the question that preoccupied me, a fatherless daughter, for most of my life, “What is a good man?”

Do we ratchet back, or turn up, our expectations of male goodness in light of what’s being exposed now? How can we call ourselves a civilized society with this undertow of male immorality damaging our women, from childhood to adulthood?

Immolation, self examination and exposure mean nothing without a recgnition, and long overdue examination, of society’s role in the shaping of manhood. Part of this poison flows from that.

My thoughts turn back in on themselves and I examine this new thing, this anti-feeling, a deadening, as it were.

The initial stories evoked shock, left me shaken, in tears, grappling with a seismic, internal disturbance and unwanted memories.

How do I guard my heart?

Now, I take them in with grim, steadfast silence and painful recognition.

My mind trips over itself, intellectual constructions inadequate to contain feelings of numbness, sorrow, rage and vulnerability.

I wait for the next revelation…

No longer caught unawares, surprise has given way to expectation, unwelcome and unwanted.

I think I preferrred surprise, for what it signified about my beliefs, to this uneasy alliance with cynicism. Is man’s bestiality a given, and moral, principled behavior a rarely glimpsed exception?

Painting by Jason Siwe

A New Toni Morrison Story…

Is on the horizon and I’m besides myself with anticipation. I love Ms. Morrison, she uses fiction to explore truth in a way no one else does. Her perspectives are always insightful, peerless and masterpieces that excavate and explore the human heart in all it’s complexity. No mean feat.

Here’s an excerpt from her upcoming book, God Help The Child, courtesy of the New Yorker:

It’s not my fault. So you can’t blame me. I didn’t do it and have no idea how it happened. It didn’t take more than an hour after they pulled her out from between my legs for me to realize something was wrong. Really wrong. She was so black she scared me. Midnight black, Sudanese black. I’m light-skinned, with good hair, what we call high yellow, and so is Lula Ann’s father. Ain’t nobody in my family anywhere near that color. Tar is the closest I can think of, yet her hair don’t go with the skin. It’s different—straight but curly, like the hair on those naked tribes in Australia. You might think she’s a throwback, but a throwback to what? You should’ve seen my grandmother; she passed for white, married a white man, and never said another word to any one of her children. Any letter she got from my mother or my aunts she sent right back, unopened. Finally they got the message of no message and let her be. Almost all mulatto types and quadroons did that back in the day—if they had the right kind of hair, that is. Can you imagine how many white folks have Negro blood hiding in their veins? Guess. Twenty per cent, I heard. My own mother, Lula Mae, could have passed easy, but she chose not to. She told me the price she paid for that decision. When she and my father went to the courthouse to get married, there were two Bibles, and they had to put their hands on the one reserved for Negroes. The other one was for white people’s hands. The Bible! Can you beat it? My mother was a housekeeper for a rich white couple. They ate every meal she cooked and insisted she scrub their backs while they sat in the tub, and God knows what other intimate things they made her do, but no touching of the same Bible.

For full text click here. You’re Welcome.

Great precursor to my upcoming piece on Colorism….

The Race Card

I hate that expression. Don’t you?

I have never once heard it posited with honest, intellectual inquiry.  It is always uttered with an attendant scorn and a slight sneer that implies the argument has already been won.

It is the equivalent of dropping an F-bomb in the middle of a Sunday sermon. It’s always successful in it’s aim, to cast aspersion and suspicion. The accusation strikes at the heart of motivation, implying that justice and equality aren’t the driving factors of your grievance but instead self-aggrandizement.

Sadly, it has certainly become de rigeur in contemporary racism discussions. Certainly, it is lobbed at African Americans with increasing frequency, without understanding of the insult or implications.

Do people really believe…

That utilizing the pain of the racism and it’s attendant scars are somehow a badge of honor?

That there is something worthwhile in admitting one’s dehumanization?

That the alienation which results from marginalization is an easy thing to unearth an share with others?

I’m not saying that race baiters don’t exist but to imply that they are a majority seems at best facetious, at worst intellectually and morally reductive.

I also find it highly suspect that the charge is only leveled at select groups. I’ve never heard anyone say it in response to anti-semitism, or to Native American Indians when they discuss their continued discrimination.

I’ve been blessed to have a diverse set of friends and have never questioned anyone’s experience of racism, sexism, homophobia etc. I would consider it supremely arrogant and ignorant to deny their experiences because I haven’t shared them. Yet many people do just that.

The “race card” attempts to delegitimize concerns about racism and imply that it’s no longer an issue. It is a strategic attempt to derail the conversation and turn the tables to point the finger at the one leveling the charge of racism. That’s probably why it’s so popular with Right Wing media and those who insist we’re living in a post-racial society.

If racism doesn’t exist then there is no need to heed the cries of those who claim to suffer from systemic racial oppression, police brutality, poverty, educational inequality and the like.We can easily dismiss them as the strivings of people who want free stuff, who want a pass, who desire unearned privilege in a meritocratic society that claims to reward those who work the hardest.

See how that works?

The problem with that is that is that the present doesn’t uphold the myth of meritocracy or post-racism. Neither do polls, or statistics, pesky things. Americans are working harder with less to show for it at any other time in history. Racial inequality and tensions are clearly on the rise. People taking to the streets by the thousands is definitely an indication that utopia is still not in reach. I’m just saying.

Call the “race card” what it is, a false, cowardly assertion that serves as a strategic impediment to avoid discussion and bar efforts to attain racial equality since it would mean less for those who benefit from the privileges accorded by White supremacy and racism.

One of the central reasons that discussions of inequality are so difficult to have is because the oppressed expect to be met by skepticism by those who are dissimilar. Imagine what would happen if we turned that supposition on it’s head? If we honored those who had the courage to speak out exposing their scars and crying out for justice? Gave equal weight to the words of those who are so clearly marginalized, empowering them. Hearing them.

Instead of leaving them to discuss their grievances in the dark, choke upon our indifference, or violently act out their rage at their subjugation.

Imagine.

If we truly want societal progress, we must first open our minds and hearts to listen to those who are not like us.

*Check out The Race Card Project turning suppositions on it’s head and having a much needed dialogue on race.

Chris Christie: warm in a luxury box at Lambeau while Camden High kids have no heat

I loathe Chris Christie and this post Is just one reason among many. If I had to go to school under such conditions it would be a sure bet that I wouldn’t go. These prison to pipeline schools MUST be addressed by Federal guidelines. Fee community College means nothing if we still have so many failing school systems :(.

Shattering Silence…

Happy New Year!

A new year, the same me with a renewed focus. I’ve been mulling over what I wanted to write because there is so much clattering about in my brain. There is a great deal that I wish to express, or expel as it were, and all of it deserves equal air time.

But often our stumbling block to success begins at the starting line and there we hover for an untold amount of time lost in contemplation. Contemplation leads to hesitation and so we wait for our inner voice to tell us that we are ready, when the truth is we ARE ready but fear has won the battle.

This is a lesson that I’ve learned very well and so these days I tend to…JUMP and trust in self that my steps will be ordered.

BREATHE.

Motivation breeds momentum which propels us to progress.

I don’t like the alternative, you see.

The alternative is silence, white noise, and every writer’s nightmare – the dreaded blank page.

This is not a time for silence.

The world does not need our silence.

The world needs our voices, raised in collective, unifying dissent.

Dissent against the status quo and those who would languish in the comfort of their ignorance and privilege while others die beneath the weight of racism, patriarchy,  poverty, White supremacy, homophobia, class war, misogyny, gun violence, militarization of our police force and the massive prison industrial complex.

The status quo thrives off our silence and complacency.

It is the unified voice, fueled by outrage, compassion and our internal moral compass that searches for truth and justice, which propels humanity forward.

___________________________________________________________________________

So, you can look forward to hearing more from me this year.  I am interested in being part of the unfolding conversation on the difficulties that we face in this country. I am compelled by the young men and women of Ferguson who, cloaked only in their anger, outrage, sadness and courage, have fearlessly given rise to a national movement, #BlackLivesMatter.

The conversation they’ve begun challenges much of what we accept, exposes the racism, corruption and machinations of government exploitation of citizens, the injustice of our judicial system and the lack of police accountability which has taken the lives of countless African Americans. Sadly, it is not a new conversation but it now has urgency and weft behind it, and it is forcing us to peel back the layers of institutional and structural inequality which is as American as apple pie.

It is an uprising against injustice whose time has come.

As I write, I look forward to feed back from each of you to have a much needed conversation on race and a myriad of topics. Some of it will be difficult to discuss, as difficult as it is for me to write about. We all have bias and operate from a place of privilege, cemented by our gender, socio-economic status, education and race – long before we even know that any of that matters. What we do about them, how we examine them, and attempt to connect with others in spite of them, as we move through our world – matters.

The willingness to engage and shatter silence, on an individual level – matters.

Conversations bring to light that which is hidden and encourage us to examine our beliefs. From our beliefs arise action and change will happen, one conversation and conscious decision at a time.

Wishing you peace, courage, consciousness and joy.

C.

 

 

A Poem: Between the World and Me – Richard Wright

A few weeks ago, during the height of the heartbreaking events in Ferguson, Jelani Cobb tweeted the poem below. In my younger days, I’ve been privileged to read Richard Wright’s work. I believe that Native Son is required reading on college syllabus’ in the US. However, I did not know that he was also a poet…and what a poet.

I am the victim of a haunting. Recent events have wedded themselves with this poem and it has stayed with me ever since. So perfectly does it do it’s job of taking you to the scene of a crime, injecting you, and immolating you.

I gasped with grief when I was done…as I did when I imagined the blood draining and pooling around the body of Michael Brown as his family stood near by in what must surely have been paroxyms of grief – for HOURS. Or, Trayvon Martin….Oscar Grant….Ramarley Graham….a list that keeps growing.

Just wandering along about my business only to be bludgeoned senseless with evidence of hate. On a page, from a screen, screaming at me from a headline, or the eyes of some stranger.

Hate, too, can be a coursing highway that ends in death.

Hatred, a living palpable thing, a gift that is mine from the hands of strangers who neither know, nor care, anything about me…or anyone who looks like me.

Black like me.

I close my eyes and the words disappear but they are seared in my memory. My mind plays tricks on me and invokes their imagery when yet another name is added to what has become a whispered litany.

I carry that with me and yet so many around me say this is a thing of my imagining, defying history, evidence, reason and all human feeling.

I count myself lucky that while I imagine, I have at least not been called to witness…. Or have I?

___________________________________________________________________________

Between the World and Me
Richard Wright

And one morning while in the woods I stumbled
    suddenly upon the thing,
Stumbled upon it in a grassy clearing guarded by scaly
    oaks and elms
And the sooty details of the scene rose, thrusting
    themselves between the world and me….

There was a design of white bones slumbering forgottenly
    upon a cushion of ashes.
There was a charred stump of a sapling pointing a blunt
    finger accusingly at the sky.
There were torn tree limbs, tiny veins of burnt leaves, and
    a scorched coil of greasy hemp;
A vacant shoe, an empty tie, a ripped shirt, a lonely hat,
    and a pair of trousers stiff with black blood.
And upon the trampled grass were buttons, dead matches,
    butt-ends of cigars and cigarettes, peanut shells, a
    drained gin-flask, and a whore’s lipstick;
Scattered traces of tar, restless arrays of feathers, and the
    lingering smell of gasoline.
And through the morning air the sun poured yellow
    surprise into the eye sockets of the stony skull….

And while I stood my mind was frozen within cold pity
    for the life that was gone.
The ground gripped my feet and my heart was circled by
    icy walls of fear–
The sun died in the sky; a night wind muttered in the
    grass and fumbled the leaves in the trees; the woods
    poured forth the hungry yelping of hounds; the
    darkness screamed with thirsty voices; and the witnesses rose and lived:
The dry bones stirred, rattled, lifted, melting themselves
    into my bones.
The grey ashes formed flesh firm and black, entering into
    my flesh.

The gin-flask passed from mouth to mouth, cigars and
    cigarettes glowed, the whore smeared lipstick red
    upon her lips,
And a thousand faces swirled around me, clamoring that
    my life be burned….

And then they had me, stripped me, battering my teeth
    into my throat till I swallowed my own blood.
My voice was drowned in the roar of their voices, and my
    black wet body slipped and rolled in their hands as
    they bound me to the sapling.
And my skin clung to the bubbling hot tar, falling from
    me in limp patches.
And the down and quills of the white feathers sank into
    my raw flesh, and I moaned in my agony.
Then my blood was cooled mercifully, cooled by a
    baptism of gasoline.
And in a blaze of red I leaped to the sky as pain rose like water, boiling my limbs
Panting, begging I clutched childlike, clutched to the hot
    sides of death.
Now I am dry bones and my face a stony skull staring in
    yellow surprise at the sun….

 

 

 

 

The Foreclosure Crisis

Excellent post on Foreclosure crisis.

Rcooley123's Blog

What happened to all the homes foreclosed on when the housing bubble burst? Millions of people lost their homes and most of their life savings when the value of their homes plummeted during the most recent financial collapse. Many found they could not keep up with mortgage payments, either because they lost their jobs during the recession or because they were overextended financially for some other reason. Some would say many never should have been offered the loans in the first place. The fact remains that many people went from pursuing the “American Dream” of home ownership to struggling just to keep a roof over their heads by renting in a very short span of time.

The banks lost tons of money on loans that would never be paid in full, but they did have something very tangible in place of the money – the property. The real estate still…

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President Obama: “A child’s course in life should be determined not by the zip code she’s born in.” “Promise Zone” locations.

Good news! Especially when I was just raving about our ineffectual gov’t and why can’t they do more to help people. Good thing the post was mysteriously erased lmao.

Love Unmasked

Beautiful and insightful.

Want to teach your students about structural racism? Prepare for a formal reprimand.

I am in Reblog heaven! Another excellent post. What is happening to education in this country? If ever we were in need of education, beyond technocracy, it would be now. It’s sad how stupid people are becoming on subjects of any real depth. How easy we want everything handed to us. How averse AND slow we are at seeking spiritual knowledge, exploring moral depths and upholding justice SMH. Ok, but I digress. Part of this tide of eroding educational standards must be laid squarely at the doors of Corpocracy and Capitalism polluting the waters.

It’s a sad and sobering day when teachers, from grade school to college, are shouting warnings that few seem willing to listen to.

Big Owl's Tree

This article is from Slate:

Shannon Gibney is a professor of English and African diaspora studies at Minneapolis Community and Technical College (MCTC). When that’s your job, there are a lot of opportunities to talk about racism, imperialism, capitalism, and history. There are also a lot of opportunities to anger students who would rather not learn about racism, imperialism, capitalism, and history. I presume MCTC knows that; they have an African diaspora studies program. Back in January 2009, white students made charges of discrimination after Gibney suggested to them that fashioning a noose in the newsroom of the campus newspaper—as an editor had done the previous fall—might alienate students of color. More recently, when Gibney led a discussion on structural racism in her mass communication class, three white students filed a discrimination complaint because it made them feel uncomfortable. This time, MCTC reprimanded Gibney under their anti-discrimination policy.

Elevating…

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Don’t you think you deserve it?

An excellent post, aptly timed. This resonated with me as I know many people who struggle with similar issues. I was not one of them, however. The day my divorce was final, I jumped up and down in the halls of justice and hugged my lawyer lmao. On my way home, I played Sweet Justice by the phenomenal Ms. Jill Scott ;).

Listen: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bb2GBsLSMtA

Take Courage,

C.

Image by Evan Leeson

A close friend called last night to tell me her divorce had been finalized.

Twenty three years of hardships and struggles had finally come to an end.

“I guess now I can tick the box that says single on my tax return” she said through her tears.

Hearing her sob on the other end, I felt confused.

During the two years it had taken for her divorce to become final, I had heard her talk about how unhappy she was, of how she felt like a prisoner in her home, how she wished she could break free.

Yet the day had arrived and she had welcomed it sobbing.

“What will I do now?” she wailed. “I feel utterly incomplete.”

For once, I was at a loss for words.

Should I tell her to host a party to declare her new state of independence, or should I…

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Happy 2014!!

Happy New Year, to my Blogosphere beloveds!

I’m fashionably late, as always, but let’s hope that my buoyant and well-meaning wishes bring you warmth. Know that I have thought of you all and miss the circumlocutions of your minds and words. You bring me joy, enlightenment, inspiration, humor and a world of differing perspectives at times when they are most needed. For that, I am thankful.

I look forward to 2014 with a renewed commitment to my writing and that means you’ll be seeing more of me in my ongoing quest for sanity in a world gone mad. Yeah!

I wanted to share the following poem which is a great source of inspiration for me and a perfect start to the New Year…

COURAGE

Courage not only means being able to do something new.

It also means taking steps to “be” someone new.

Some of us talk a great deal
because we are afraid we won’t be heard.

Others, never say anything
in fear of saying the wrong thing.

Some of us, are overactive and hyperactive
because we fear missing out.

There are those of us who are withdrawn,
lethargic, inactive,
in fear of messing up.

One of the first steps in developing
a courageous outlook and approach to life
is being able to look at ourselves,
our beliefs,
attitudes and patterns.

Courage enable us to examine.

Examination enables us to choose.

Courage is more than a forceful,
aggressive, bold outward action.

At it’s most infinite level,
courage is an in-depth,
inward examination
which leads to alteration and application
of a new way to be.

– Unknown

Wishing you courage, peace and passion!

Signed,

A member of the “It’s Too Damn Cold Committee”

40 Something Me…

All those things I said would never happen have surreptitiously crept into my peripheral vision and like a Jack in the Box appear with alarming frequency when I least expect it.

Insert blinkered sign flashing “50 Dead Ahead” here.

“How old are you?”

The fluidity, and let’s face it, honesty, with which I used to answer this question is totally gone.

Now, there is a noticeable pause and stutter as my brain grapples its way round to the inevitable mathematical conclusion and issues forth a begrudging reply.

“40 something.”

Short of hot pincers beneath my fingernails, or an official badge, it’s the best response anybody will get from me.

I am a woman after all.

Also? I’m old enough to embrace the wise adage, “A lady never admits her age.”

I think that’s pretty normal. If you’re blessed to live long enough, most of us will reach an age that serves as a mental impasse, we wish to neither discuss, or acknowledge.

For me, that’s 45. The glorious no woman’s land, halfway between sophisticated 40, and fuck it all 50.

What alarms me is the gray area where my age used to reside. Not to mention, the gray hairs.

More often than I care to admit, I pause and calculate my age because, a. I flat out don’t remember it, or b. I think my memory is wrong. This just can’t be.

I spent a whole year telling people I was 43 when I was 44 soooo not on purpose.

That’s not early, onset Alzheimer’s, it’s a very subtle form of mental erasure, a selective memory processing as it were. Mind you, it happened of its own accord and began around 42. Please tell me I’m not the only one with this affliction.

People don’t believe my age, they keep telling me that I look like I’m 30 something.

Cause celebre?

Hell to the no.

Mental circumvention tactics aside, I FEEL my age. Or more aptly, all biological and societal indicators have begun to point North.

It started with the glasses. I was prescribed glasses and in a complete state of denial refused to wear them for a whole year.

Finally, I was forced to face reality because I got tired of squinting at small print on labels and moving things back and forth in a foolish attempt to focus in public places like a moron.

Along came bizarre conversations with my friends about “appropriate” attire for 40 somethings. Seriously?!

I refuse to let anyone tell me what to wear. If I look good enough to rock it, it’s all on the table. Fierceness is ageless! Think Tina Turner ;).

Fast forward to friends calling to inform me that they’re now peri-menopausal. WTF is that? Ok no.

Or, the long minutes of my life that I’ll never get back, standing in Pharmacy aisles staring at the extensive line of products aimed at women of a certain age.

There are so many products for dark spots, wrinkles etc. that it’s nothing short of baffling. I can’t tell you how many aggrieved women I’ve met in these shadowy aisles who look completely stressed out and leave empty handed in disgust and terror.

Oh for the days when I could snatch up any product and bounce. Now, I feel like I need to be a dermatologist to pick the right one. Never mind, the obscene prices. The beauty industry is pimping us out and making a gold mine.

If one more person calls me ma’am I won’t be responsible for what I do. They can have that mess.

Nor, has it escaped my notice that most of my favorite things are now classics. Considering the gray music and movies they’re turning out today that one’s not so bad.

Words have changed in their definition. Jail bait used to mean anyone under 21. At my age, it means anyone under 35. Try as I might, physical attraction still exists but once they start speaking, I’m tripping on how little they know. I can’t help but contemplate the ocean of inexperience that lies between us and the inexorable dwindling of desire is a foregone conclusion.

Gone is my desire for the fast, the quick, the cutting edge new. In it’s place, I find the precious ability to be still and delve deeper.

I know what matters to me now and certainty guides my steps as I pursue joy, knowing fully how transient and important it is.

I savor now, not just gulp lol.

I am more compassionate and wiser in ways that I never imagined and that’s priceless.

I think of all the time I spent trying to find myself, a necessary but arduous and painful task, and I’m happy to settle more comfortably into my 40 something, requires extra care, skin. Truly.

It’s all part of the process. A process that I’m blessed to continue experience unfolding.

Besides, I cant get distracted, I have a bag of pharmaceuticals dragging behind me and it takes all my concentration to hide their bulk behind my miniskirt. 😉

Why ‘stop and frisk’ is worse than NSA surveillance

Great post! Thought provoking and well written.

The Fifth Column

If my boys, who are now in their 40’s had lived during these times in NYC there is an overwhelming chance that they would have been stopped and frisked several times.  Today my  sons and daughters are professionals in their chosen fields, but would they have had that chance in today’s NYPD environment?

The New York Civil Liberties Union has published data that show African Americans and Latinos are the prime targets of the Stop and frisk programs.

The Compass – Marc Ambinder

My black friends in New York, particularly those who don’t live in the fancier precincts of Manhattan, have been harassed by the NYPD in a way that I, as a white guy, will never experience.

They’ve been stopped and frisked, for reasons known only to the officers. Almost every young black male I know has a story to tell.

The news today that a federal judge found…

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NY Stop and Frisk Ruling: “Who Watches the Watchmen?”

“Who watches the Watchmen?” Who indeed?

YEAH! Stop and Frisk has been ruled unconstitutional. It’s one of those rare occasions when we get to cheer progress, however incremental it may be. I smiled all day Monday! That’s an anomaly. I typically spend most of my time quelling the impulse to curse, most times unsuccessfully. 😉

In my book, Judge Shira Scheindlin is a shero.

Bloomberg on the other hand is a friggin scourge. When the man leaves office I will throw a party to celebrate. Loathing is too nice a word.

I have been a fierce critic of Stop and Frisk forever. It is cruel, unjust and racially discriminatory. There is no doubt in my mind that in many cases it has lead to murder. Full stop.

Also?

I can’t even tell you how it thrills me that the police will have to video stops. My joy is boundless. “Who is watching…” See how that works? *pulls self together* Let us hope that it has a significant impact on unjustified policing and curtails the abuse that seems to be reading so rapidly. Case in point, WTF is happening in Texas? Illegal cavity searches for the love of all that’s holy?!!

But I digress.

I’m losing my mind reading all the excellent coverage out there, so for your reading pleasure, have a gander:

1. Jelani Cobb – Ruling on Stop and Frisk, Remembering Trayvon Martin, courtesy of the New Yorker

2. John Cassidy – The Statistical Debate behind Stop and Frisk, courtesy of the New Yorker

3. Floyd vs. City of New York – Judge Shira Scheindlin Decision, courtesy of the New York Times

4. Ta Nahesi Coates – Ending Michael Bloomberg’s Racist Profiling Campaign, courtesy of The Atlantic. *Check out the last link in the article re: Officer Adrian Schoolcraft – The NYPD Tapes.

Happy Reading!

Callsign: Hatred

This left me speechless with it’s power, pain and veracity. The world will only change if we speak our truths and fight for justice.

A Matter of Scale

Found a wonderful collection of hate-filled racist tweets from Saturday ranging from cheering Zimmerman and the awesomeness of the American Justice system to being glad someone was standing up for White people and putting niggers back in their place. (Bear with me. If you know my work, I never use that word lightly.) Part of this is the internet promoting anonymous ass-hattery, most of these were fake accounts created for inciting and promoting anger and frustration. I know this because I have used Twitter long enough to know how to recognize fake accounts when I see them.

But the sentiments they voice are still quite real. The hands on those keys in anonymous places are connected to real honest-to-God (I know) racists, bigots and culturally-deprived idiots. More than half, probably have never left their state, and a good percentage of them, the county in which they were born. Most have…

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Obama Speaks Out on Zimmerman Verdict

Obama Speaks Out on Zimmerman Verdict

Excerpt…

Here is the link to the full transcript of the speech.

And then there was Eve…

Favorite thing of the day #2. #1 is We Are Not Trayvon Martin :).

This article, Boys with Tender Hearts And Big Dreams In Their Hoodies, and video broke my heart and put it back together again.

I’ve always loved Eve Ensler. She is a phenom, scribe and agent for change, all things closest to my heart. Now, I love and respect her even more for breaking it all the way down like this and doing that thing she does so well, turning passion into purpose. Read and watch… #J4TM #StopViolenceAgainstWomen #Rising

Visit http://www.Onebillionbising.org

We Are Not Trayvon Martin…

For months, I’ve seen African Americans lead the charge on Twitter in an attempt to school White liberals (et al) on White privilege. Sometimes they get it, sometimes they scream BS and you’re pulling the race card and run tweeting in the other direction.

“Denial is the most predictable of human responses.” – The Matrix.

Indeed.

It is also the most shameful when truth is staring you in the face – if you would just remove your blinders to see it.

It changes the entire dynamic when you open your mind and listen with an open heart. It validates the other and comes from an honest place which allows for building and coalitions.

That has awesome all over it, yes?

Because, let’s face it, the racism that infects our country’s institutions, spawns racist laws and has poisoned so many minds, can’t be fixed by POC alone. Just as it was in the 60’s, we need a broad coalition to address the egregious wrongs that are being perpetrated on POC.

That’s why it did my heart good to see the diverse crowds that have been protesting against the Zimmerman verdict. And, the Youtube video below that went viral after the verdict. (Not the only one but I believe that it’s the first.)

I just found out about wearenottrayvonmartin and it blew my mind. It’s a compilation of perspectives by (mostly) White people on White privilege. Most importantly, it asks, “What will you do to change this country?”

Great article here.

Is this a sign of the beginning of a much needed dialogue on race that America needs to have? Of the change many of us would like to see? It may just be that we are witnessing an important moment.

We can only hope. *fingers crossed*

EXCERPT – I’M RAISING MY WHITE FLAG: AN OPEN LETTER TO ALL WHITE PEOPLE

I white’d out my profile pics on Facebook and Twitter. I did this to align myself with white power – not to laud it, but to acknowledge this sad reality that me and all white people share. We who were born white are heirs to white privilege – at least here in the USA. One very important thing this means is if I’m walking in my own neighborhood at night, I’m far less likely to be deemed suspicious and then gunned down than my black male counterparts taking the same walk.

I decided to white out my Facebook and Twitter profiles today to align myself with white power not to laud it, but to acknowledge it as my unwanted, undeserved inheritance. I see this as a first step all white people must face as our part in ending racism in America and preventing any more Trayvon Martin tragedies.

We didn’t make these rules, but they’re here and serve us quite well if you ask me. What’s more, these inherited rules also mean that if I gun down an unarmed black man who I deem suspicious, the criminal justice system will provide me every benefit of doubt the deadly privilege of being white affords me. Not a bad deal for us whites and certainly a good one for George Zimmerman. Not only was he acquitted, he gets to have his gun back – yes the exact one he used to shoot Trayvon Martin in the chest! What really bothers me about all this is the burden I feel I carry of being, as I perceive, one of a few white people who get and readily admit my undeserved privilege. I’m sick because it seems way too easy for far too many white people to feel excused from facing who they really are because: “I’m not racist” – as if non-racist white people have never racially profiled an innocent black person as suspicious. Holding this revelation, admittedly, leaves me feeling isolated and vulnerable. I’m tired with worry over being ostracized for sharing my opinions about white privilege.

But there’s another idea that tires me even more: Racism.

I’m tired of how it’s used as a wedge issue to divide us politically. I’m broken over the dehumanization of black skin by everyone from the media who want to sell ads, to politicians who want to win votes, to all my unconscious white friends and family who want to deny their privilege just to avoid feeling guilty. I’m indignant with white people who know better but do nothing out of fear of alienating their friends, family and neighbors. I’m aghast at the horrifying results of this white privilege, this white negligence where ideas like “we’re all part of the human race” are used to shield us from taking responsibility for our inherited place of privilege. Yes, we should be a color-blind society by now, but a gunned-down, unarmed, hoodie-donning black teen named Trayvon and his acquitted white killer named George tell us we’re not.

Until we are truly color-blind, until we live in a world where it’s safe for black parents to allow their black teens to be pedestrians in their own neighborhoods, I am raising my white flag to acknowledge my own ugly, inheritance and how little I deserve it. I’m raising my flag to tell the world that I understand that I hold this oppressive power by simply being born and that I’ve often obliviously exercised it over my black brothers and sisters, to my shame. I’m raising my flag against the implicit violence of media who report black crime while failing to cover the poverty that often causes it. I’m raising my flag against politicians who violently lie to divide us with race-baiting, pitting ideas like gov’t assistance recipients as lazy, greedy, and black. I’m putting these elected leaders on notice that I’m white and know the truth that the majority demographic who receives gov’t assistance are white women. I’m raising my white flag because I’m tired of the many of the white people I know, people who are friends on Facebook, getting so defensive at the slightest indication that they’re more privileged, safer, looked at more favorably in America than black people. I’m raising my flag to point out that a white person with a hoodie walking through George Zimmerman’s neighborhod watch would not have been suspicious, would not have been pursued, would not have been provoked to “stand his ground,” and would not have been killed with a concealed weapon. I’m raising my flag at all the white people who share their obscene memes, their insensitive flippant remarks, their simple-minded ideas about the trial and it’s verdict so they can shield themselves from their own responsibility in this tragedy. I’m raising my flag to make all my white friends aware of just how white I am, just how white they are, and how dangerously that idea divides, how tragically it dehumanizes. I’m raising my flag because, whether we asked to be white or not, even though we didn’t create the notion – we inherited it. I’m raising my flag to call on all fellow white people to shake their obliviousness and finally own the high status our white privilege affords us in the USA. I’m raising my flag in hopes that fellow white people will join me in finally settling the sordid accounts of our forefathers so we can end this violent, dehumanizing power of white-skin privilege once and for all!!

We Want Justice…Now.

I read this piece by Questlove today and can’t get it out of my mind.

I recognized the honesty of Questlove’s story because it mirrors so many stories told by African American’s across the socio-economic spectrum…for those who have the courage to listen.

Also? As a 6’2 African American female, I have lived a portion of his truth. Many people are jarred when they first see me as they take in my height. Most of these people are White. Some shrink away from me, some don’t answer doors when I make business calls, and some are just rude and dismissive.

Their dislike, fueled by racism, and real or imaginary stereotypes, is hard enough to bear. But to see fear on someone else’s face because of your race and physicality is always deeply disturbing. It always blows your mind and creates cognitive dissonance. Especially, if like Amir describes, you have diligently worked to craft your demeanor, speech, or appearance so as to be less “threatening”…to no avail.

Like I did, for years, slumping in attempt to hide myself and diminish my stature. As if that was possible. Or, crafting my speech to not sound “ghetto” as if I could separate myself from the shadows of neo-racism. Or, most telling and shamefully, the years that I closed myself off from Black friends because of self hate that I failed to recognize and worked hard to overcome.

Disturbing psychological ramifications are manifold…

– The feeling that you will not be judged as individual no matter what you do.

– The knowledge that to some “people” you will never be “right” (or worthy of human consideration) because they have shrunk your human possibility and potential to fit in with what they’ve been told, taught, or see on some stupid ass reality show.

– The fact that you must find a way of coping with this injustice and work around the people and systems who uphold it in order to survive.

…is a pretty fucking horrible feeling.

I feel Questlove and honestly, I doubt there is a single African American who read this story that did not. I applaud him for the courage to speak on this deeply personal subject, in direct contradiction to his famed persona, and reveal his very human, vulnerability and pain.

No one knows the shoes you walk in.

We love to say that but sadly it’s not always true. Some parts of the human experience are not individual but collective.

And when the Zimmerman verdict was announced, the pain, the rage, the shame, the horror and the sadness seemed collectively shared by Black America. You could read it on social media and hear it on TV, all before the search for equality and justice took us to the streets again.

I have no children but if I did this is not the reality that I would wish them to grow up with. Pain, that they did not ask for or deserve. Realities that they must learn to cope with our be broken by. The psychological scars of racism that ‘post racial’ America would like to pretend does not exist, in order for some to assuage their guilt and for others to perpetuate the system which their forefathers created.

I learned of the verdict on Sunday and spent most of it in a black cloud.

It was NOT just another day…for millions of Americans.

I sobbed inconsolably for the Martin family and my people. Some unlucky person tried conversing with me on Twitter about Black on Black crime and how things would not change until we treated ourselves better. So great was my rage and pain that I nearly imploded. before I could combust I blocked her instead.

My overriding thought was how insane it is that my pain must be the lowest possible denomination of what my ancestors must have felt, in the 60’s, in the 50’s, in the 40’s, in the 30’s…going back to the 18th century.

But America has changed, yes?

It has not changed enough and we must demand for future generations that it does.

50th Anniversary of the March on Washington